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THE  QUEST 

Edward   Salisbury    Field 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 

GIFT  OF 

Mrs.  Charles  t..  Aiken 


I 


CHARLES  SEDGWICK  AIKEN 
EDNAH  AIKEN 


The  Quest 

AND 

OTHER  POEMS 


EDWARD  SALISBURY  FIELD 


BOSTON 

RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE  GORHAM   PRESS 

1904 


Aik 


Copyright,  1903,  by  Edward  Salisbury  Field 
All  Rights  Reserved 


Printed  at 

THE  GORHAM  PRESS 
Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


TO  MY  MOTHER 

I've  gone  about  for  years  I  find 

With  eyes  half  blind, 

Squandering  golden  hours 

In  search  of  flow'rs 

That  do  not  grow,  it  seems, 

Except  in  dreams ; 

But  in  my  wanderings 

From  place  to  place 

I've  found  no  face  more  fair — 

No  eyes  more  true  than  thine, 

Oh  mother  mine. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Quest 7 

Eyes  of  my  Life 15 

Song  16 

I  Think  the  Garden  Misses  You 17 

Bitter   Sweet    18 

Why  Do  I  Love  Thee  ? 19 

But  Love  Can  Hear 20 

How  Did  I  Know? 21 

You   Smiled    22 

When  You  Are  Away 23 

Moon  Song   24 

I  Love  Thee  and  I  Will  Not  Go .25 

To  Forget  26 

Now  Thou  Art  Gone 27 

The  Shadow    28 

Lest  My  Soul  Should  Stray 29 

And  The  Seasons  Go 30 

The  Little  Things   31 

The  Portrait  of  a  Gentleman 32 

Along  The  Stream 33 

The  Wind  Seems  Kind  Today 34 

A  Rose  or  Two 35 

Jealously   36 

The  Time  for  Mating 37 

And  We  Were  Alone 38 

The  Dragon-Fly  39 

The  First  Prelude  Chopin 40 

For  Her  Majesty  The  Queen 41 

Nesting  Times  42 

Quatrain  43 


PAGE 

Friendship 44 

I  Know  a  Place  Where  a  River  Weaves 45 

Was  It  The  Sea? 46 

Song  of  a  Lonely  Soul 47 

Until  a  Master  Passion  Shall  Arise 48 

Have  You  Ever  Been  To  Fairy  Land? 49 

I  Would  Be  Great 50 

What  Do  You  Say? 51 

Then  Came  Twilight 52 

Longings   53 

Sir  Insolence   54 

The  Water  Lilies 55 

An  Old  Fashioned  Garden 56 

But  The  Living  Fade 57 

When  Sunbeams  Stray 58 


THE  QUEST 

With  windows  open  towards  Futurity 
I  sit  and  wait,  and  watch  the  eastern  sky. 
'Tis  weary  waiting  for  the  days  that  lie 
Somewhere  beyond.     The  clouds  go  winging  by 

As  I  have  sometimes  seen  belated  birds 
Go  winging  nestward,  fearful  in  their  flight 
Thro'  the  uncertain  and  fast-fading  light 
Lest  they  be  overtaken  by  the  Night. 

In  dreams  alone  have  I  found  Happiness. 
Last  night  I  dreamed  of  freedom ;  of  release 
From  sorrow;  of  a  strange,   sweet   song  of 

peace. 
Alas,  that  such  a  dream  should  ever  cease ! 

But  as  I  drifted  thro'  the  Shoals  of  Sleep, 
Out  from  the  Isle  of  Dreams  where  all  things 

are, 

I  saw  what  seemed  to  be  a  peerless  Star, 
And  longed  to  grasp  it,  but  it  was  too  far. 

So  many  of  us  are  but  restless  birds 
Of  passage,  constantly  upon  the  wing; 
Who  never  think  to  look  within  the  ring 
Of  Self  and  Soul,  to  find  the  Hidden  Spring. 

And  few  possess  a  vessel  large  enough 
To  hold  the  countless  tears  that  overflow. 
The  Christian  has  his  God ;  we  Pagans  know 
No  God  to  comfort  us,  and  we  must  go. 


And   lay   our   heads   on   some    dear,    faithful 

breast, 

And  breathe  the  sorrows  that  the  Seasons  send 
To  one  who,  in  our  life's  uneven  trend, 
Has  merited  the  sacred  name  of  Friend. 

Within  my  garden  many  flow'rs  have  bloomed 
And  withered,  and  its  pathways  all  are  strown 
With  petals  '.hat  the  willful  winds  have  blown — 
With  little  hopes  that  once  I  called  my  own. 

When   Twilight   with   her  pale,   gray  fingers 

sweeps 

The  last  rose-tinted  glory  from  the  west, 
I  sometimes  feel  my  aching  brow  caress'd 
By  the  cool  hands  of  her  whom  I  love  best. 

There  is  a  Voice  that  I  shall  always  hear 
(If  that  strange  thing  be  true — that  shadowv 
Predicted  someting  called  Eternity) 
It  has  become  so  much  a  part  of  me. 

Across  sad  sens,  within  the  Vale  of  Sleep, 
Two  silent  cities  lie ;  and  of  the  pair. 
One  is  so  cold,  and  dark  and  sinister, 
That  I  would  pray  to  never  enter  there. 

For  all  night  long  there  roams  within  its  walls 
A  Restlessness.  Without,  from  dusk  till  dawn, 
The  Night  Wind  moans  and  mutters  till  the 

wan, 
Pale  face  of  Morning  bids  them  both  begone. 


Oh,  pity  him  who  longs  and  yearns  for  rest — 
The  tortured  one  whom  Sleep  will  not  obey ! 
The  head  that  on  a  sleepless  pillow  lay 
Must  rise  at  morn  to  face  another  day. 

I  am  a  captive  caught  within  the  web 
Of  Circumstance.     I  trust  the  weight  of  years 
To  free  me.     Why,  then,  importune  the  ears 
Of  One  who  never  answers  if  He  hears  ? 

Some  day  the  threads  will  snap  beneath  the 

strain, 

And  give  me  liberty.     When  I  can  go 
And  come  at  will,  and  reap  where  now  I  sow, 
And  pay  the  paltry  pennies  that  I  owe, 

Life  will  be  rid  of  petty  tyrannies. 

Then  shall  I  have  more  time  to  sing  my  songs, 

More  time  to  satisfy  a  Soul  that  longs 

To  solve  the  mystery  of  Rights  and  Wrongs. 

The  sweetest  singer  that  has  ever  sung 
Thro'  all  the  ages,  from  a  Vintner's  Sign 
Fashioned  a  harp,  with  tendrils  of  the  Vine 
For  strings,   and   sang  a  wondrous   Song  of 
Wine. 

For  one  brief  moment  it  was  given  me 
To  lie  within  the  arms  of  Happiness ; 
And  I  remember  every  tenderness — 
Each  smile,  each  sigh,  each  heart-throb,  each 
caress. 


Last  night  I  listened  to  a  mocking-bird 
That  sang  to  me  somewhere  out  in  the  rain. 
There  was  a  note  within  its  lovely  strain 
That  told  of  heart-break  and  a  world  of  pain. 

I  love  the  music  of  the  Night ;  and  yet 
In  all  the  songs  the  Night  has  sung  to  me 
I  have  not  found  one  single  melody 
That  was  not  written  in  a  minor  key. 

And  when  I  listen  to  a  violin 
That  seems  almost  to  suffer  as  the  bow 
Within  the  Master's  hand  glides  to  and  fro 
Across  its  strings  (and  it  is  often  so) 

I  feel  the  bow  upon  my  own  heart  strings. 
And  every  sob,  and  sigh,  and  psalm  of  praise, 
And  every  curse  and  cadence  that  obeys 
Is  mine ;  and  I — the  violin  he  plays. 

I  seem  to  feel  each  veering  of  the  wind. 

Above  the  petty  clouds  of  Loss  and  Gain 

I  sit,  and  watch  Earth's  children  strive  and 

strain, 
And  search"  for  sunbeams  in  a  blinding  rain. 

Death  came  to  me  one  night  within  a  dream, 
And  stood  beside  me  for  a  while ;  then  laid 
His  hand  upon  my  head  and  gently  bade 
Me  follow  him.     And  I  was  not  afraid. 


10 


I  rose  and  followed  him.     But  as  I  asked 
Of  him  that  question  which  the  Living  must 
Forever  ask,  into  my  hands  was  thrust 
An  alabaster  box  half-filled  with  dust. 

There  is  a  Heaven  in  this  world  somewhere ; 
And  if  I  could  but  find  it  I  would  give 
Up  all  I  have,  throw  down  the  sorry  sieve 
Thro'  which  I  sift  the  sands  of  Life,  and — 
LIVE! 

Of  Life's  Illusions,  this  is  not  the  least : 
The  Pleasures  of  the  Morrow  magnify 
Themselves ;  and  thus  deceived,  too  oft  we  sigh, 
And  pass  the  Pleasures  of  the  Present  by. 

In  some  things  I  am  nothing  but  a  child : 
I  make  believe  the  cloudy  days  are  fair, 
And  when  the  pain  seems  more  than  I  can  bear, 
I  smile — and  make  believe  I  do  not  care. 

Ah,  yes !  but  there  is  one  of  me  (the  child 
Or  man,  I  know  not  which  it  is)  who  fears 
That  should  the  game  be  played  thro'  many 

years 
I  shall  go  blind  with  holding  back  the  tears. 

I  am  a  plaything  in  the  hands  of  Fate. 
Sometimes  I  seem  to  please,  as  playthings  will ; 
And  then  again,  my  Master  treats  me  ill, 
And  tosses  me  aside — His  plaything  still. 


ii 


Life  is  a  journey ;  days  are  distances. 
Each  morn  we  rise  where  we  so  safely  stowed 
Our  packs  the  night  before,  and  with  the  load 
Once  more  upon  our  backs,  we  take  the  road 

That  leads— NO  ONE  KNOWS   WHERE. 

Altho'  'tis  plain 

That  we  could  gather  from  the  Least  Profound 
The  most  concerning  whither  we  are  bound, 
Were  Silence  less  intelligent  than  Sound. 

And  tho'  I  know  that  I  should  never  turn 
My  little  lamp  upon  another's  sin 
Until  I  have  first  turned  its  rays  within, 
And  scanned  the  miles  to  where  I  might  have 
been; 

We  know  so  many  things  that  are  not  true. 
That  dreams  are  sweetest  in  the  month  of  May, 
And  your  eyes  bluest  when  the  skies  are  gray. 
Were  worth  a  thousand  truths  of  Yesterday. 

My  eyes  so  often  seek  the  Evening  Star. 

I  sometimes  fancy  it  a  sentinel 

Before  the  walls  of  Night ;  placed  there  to  tell 

The  world  when  Day  is  dead,  and  all  is  well. 

Ah,  'tis  a  noble  sight  to  watch  the  stars 
As  cap-a-pie,  with  every  shining  lance 
Aloft,  and  every  armored  side  a-glance 
With  gleaming  light,  they  silently  advance. 


12 


Dear  Heart,  oft  times  when  Night  is  marshall- 
ing 

Her  regiments,  I  wonder  where  you  are ; 
If  your  dear  eyes  are  watching  from  afar 
The  self-same  heavens,  and  the  self-same  star. 

Ah,  see  yon  meteor  that  westward  wings 
Across  the  firmament  and  disappears 
In  nothingness  beyond !    As  days  in  years 
Are  lost,  or  hours  of  happiness  in  tears. 

If  I  could  envy,  I  would  envy  him 

Who  has  the  power  to  make  the  Present  pay 

For  all  the  joylessness  of  yesterday, 

And  all  the  sorrow  which  the  morrow  may 

Hold  out  to  him.     I  would  that  I  could  say : 
"To-morrow  is,  at  best,  an  idle  boast ; 
And  Yesterday — what  is  it  but  a  ghost? 
The  Great  Today  is  mine ;  the  least,  the  most." 

We  rail  at  Life ;  and  yet  if  gold  could  buy 
Us  years  to  live,  I  venture  to  foretell 
That  we  should  never  find  the  ones  who  dwell 
At  length  upon  Life's  woe,  with  years  to  sell. 

Life  is  a  sad  sweet  song  of  wonderment. 

The  dead  leaves  wonder  why  the  west  wind 

blows ; 

The  willows  wonder  where  the  river  flows ; 
And  I — I  wonder  if  the  river  knows. 


Sometimes  the  hopes  we  build  our  very  Lives 
Upon  are  razed ;  and  then,  altho'  we  start 
A  thousand  times  to  play  the  little  part 
Assigned  to  us,  we  play  with  half  a  heart. 

I  love  the  spirit  that  can  smile  in  pain. 
It  is  the  spirit  in  the  Human  Race 
That  has  the  power  to  glorify — to  trace 
Nobility  upon  the  Human  Face. 

The  pictures  of  the  past  by  mellow  tints 
Are  glorified.     The  flow'rs  that  used  to  grow 
Were  somehow  sweeter  than  the  flow'rs  we 

know 
Today.     Dear  Heart,  it  will  be  always  so. 

The  best  that  Life  can  offer  is  the  best 
Within  us.     Down  our  little  Road  of  Years 
We  hurry — thro'  a  mist  of  smiles  and  tears — 
Pursuing  Hope ;  pursued  by  Doubts  and  Fears. 

Like  butterflies  we  sip  now  here — now  there. 
Like  thistledown  we  drift,  and  rise  and  fall 
At  every  careless  zephyr's  beck  and  call. 
Like  flow'rs  we  bloom  and  wither ; — that  is  all. 


EYES  OF  MY  LIFE 

Eyes  of  my  Life! 
If  thou  should'st  go — 
What  of  the  night  ? 
Dost  thou  not  know — 
Heart  of  my  Heart! — 
Hast  thou  forgot 
There  is  no  light 
Where  thou  art  not  ? 


S.ONG 

Last  night  I  saw  you  in  a  dream ; 

I  called — you  did  not  hear  me. 

And  then  there  came  another  dream 

And  you  were  very  near  me. 

We  roamed  the  meadows,  hand  in  hand, 

Whilst  all  the  world  was  sleeping; 

And  then  at  dawn  we  parted,  dear, 

And  I  awakened,  weeping! 


16 


I  THINK  THE  GARDEN  MISSES  YOU 

I  think  the  garden  misses  you  ; 
The  roses,  if  they  did  not  care, 
Would  never  droop  the  whole  day  thro', 
Nor  look  as  wistful  as  they  do. 


BITTER-SWEET 

It  is  sweet  to  be  missed 
So  the  old  saying  goes, 
And  I  doubt  it  not,  Dearest 
Yet  every  one  knows 
That  dark  shadows  lurk 
In  the  converse  of  this, 
That  the  bitter  remains 
For  the  many  who  miss. 


18 


WHY  DO  I  LOVE  THEE? 

Why  do  I  love  thee?    Why  dost  thou  believe 
That  there  is  vision  greater  than  thy  sight  ? 
Why  do  the  swallows  circle  in  their  flight  ? 
Why  can  he  give  most,  who  can  most  receive? 
Why  does  the  bosom  of  the  ocean  heave? 
Why  are  the  lilies  of  the  valley  white? 
Why  do  the  morning-glories  close  at  night? 
And  why  does  Autumn  wear  one  scarlet  sleeve  ? 

Thou  would'st  not  ask  a  reason  for  the  rose, 
Nor  of  the  wind  know  more  than  that  it  blows ; 
And  yet  thou  askest  me  to  tell  thee  why 
I  love  thee.    Still,  to  please  thee,  I  will  try — 
(And  who  shall  call  my  answer  incomplete?) 
I  love  thee,  just  because  I  love  thee,  Sweet  1 


BUT  LOVE  CAN   HEAR 

Love  is  blind,  but  Love  can  hear. 
The  faintest  footfall  tell  the  lover's  ear 
That  she  is  near. 

And  blind  tho'  lovers  be ;  still  can  they  see 
A  thousand  graces,  hidden  all  the  while 
From  you  and  me. 


HOW   DID    I    KNOW? 

How  did  I  know  that  we  should  meet? 
I  think  it  was  my  own  heart's  beat 
That  told  me  you  were  coming,  Sweet ! 

How  did  I  know  which  way  you'd  pass? 
I  saw  a  daisy  in  the  grass 
Consult  its  dewdrop  looking-glass ! 


YOU  SMILED 

You  smiled,  and  then  the  whole  world  seemed 

to  thrill; 

A  pulsing,  throbbing  joy  ran  thro'  my  veins 
As  rills  run  down  a  mountain  when  it  rains. 

And  straightway  all  my  thoughts  deserted  me ; 
Attracted  by  the  f^bry  of  your  eyes, 
As  golden-rod  attracts  the  butterflies. 


WHEN   YOU   ARE  AWAY 

When  you  are  away 
The  hours  lag  so, 
And  the  days  declare 
That  they  will  not  go. 
But  how  they  can  care, 
Or  bear  to  stay 
Wrhen  you  are  away, 
I  do  not  know. 


MOON  SONG 

The  night  is  clear,  and  the  moon  sails  high. 

Come  nearer  my  Beloved,  nearer  still ! 
The  winds  are  crooning  a  lullaby. 

ajCome  nearer  my  Beloved,  nearer  still ! 
There  are  none  in  the  world  but  Thou  and  I ; 
And  Thou  art  mine  to  caress  until 
The  stars  grow  pale  in  the  eastern  sky, 
And  the  moon  sails  over  the  hill. 
But  oh,  how  swiftly  the  moments  fly ! 

Come  nearer  my  Beloved,  nearer  still ! 


I  LOVE  THEE,  AND  I  WILL  NOT  GO 

I  love  thee,  and 
I  will  not  go. 
Dost  understand? 
I  love  thee,  and 
Should'st  thou  command 
I  must  say:    "No; 
I  love  thee,  and 
I  will  not  go !" 


TO  FORGET 

Spirit  of  song  within  my  glass, 
Sparkling  wine,  soul  of  the  vine, 
Stray  sunbeams,  golden  gleams, 
Ripples  of  laughter,  daring  dreams 
In  this  glass  of  mine — 
Thou  shalt  pass  my  lips,  and  let 
Thy  sweet  madness  teach  my  sadness 
To  forget. 


NOW  THOU  ART  GONE 

God  knows  I  miss  thee  thro'  the  day, 
And  thro'  the  evening  hours.     But  when 
I  kiss  the  pillow  where  thy  dear  head  lay — 
God !  how  I  miss  thee  then ! 

I  love  thee  so !    I  even  dare 
To  hope — yes,  know  that  thou  wilt  be 
Mine  as  thou  wert  before.     Sometime,  some- 
where, 
Thou  wilt  return  to  me! 

The  law  of  Life  that  made  me  thine, 
Gave  thee  to  me.    Were  it  not  so, 
Then  had  I  learned  to  curse  this  heart  of  mine 
That  will  not  let  thee  go ! 


THE  SHADOW 

Since  thou  hast  turned  thy  face  from  me, 

The  winds  blow  neither  good  nor  ill. 

Thou  art  as  yonder  straying  cloud, 

And  I — the  shadow  on  the  hill ; 

For  thou  dost  go  where  e'er  the  winds  decree, 

And  I — I  can  but  choose  to  follow  thee. 


LEST  MY  SOUL  SHOULD  STRAY 

Lethe,  lest  my  soul  should  stray 

Again  into  the  mortal  clay, 

Lend  it  (to  warn  it  how  it  was  betrayed  before) 

One  little,  haunting  memory,  that  it  may  be 

Content  to  enter  some  fair  tree — 

A  poplar,  or  a  sycamore. 


AND  THE  SEASONS  GO 

The  seasons  come,  and  the  seasons  go; 
Alas  that  the  days  should  hurry  so! 
Spring  floats  by  like  a  butterfly, 
And  summer  is  gone  before  we  know. 

The  seasons  come,  and  the  seasons  go; 
Alas,  that  the  days  should  loiter  so! 
My  poor  heart  grieves  for  the  dear,  dead  leaves, 
And  the  long,  long  time  till  the  roses  blow. 


THE   LITTLE  THINGS 

The  happiness  of  life  doth  so  depend 

Upon  the  little  things, 

That  any  word  of  kindness  may  portend 

The  thought  which  brings 

The  deed ;  which,  in  the  end, 

Doth  make  the  friend. 


THE  PORTRAIT  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 

Helpful  and  hopeful,  doing  what  he  can 
To  make  the  lives  about  him  more  serene ; 
Upright  and  fearless,  sober,  steadfast,  clean, 
Quick  to  discern  the  great  All  Father's  plan ; 
Eager  to  learn,  and  not  afraid  to  scan, 
The  future ;  kindly,  gracious,  tender,  keen, 
The  very  soul  of  honor,  never  mean — 
That  is  the  portrait  of  a  gentleman. 

Some  seek  for  fortune  in  the  busy  marts, 
Some  for  mere  selfish  pleasure,  some  for  fame ; 
And  some  would  sell  their  souls  and  rob  their 

hearts — 

Would  barter  all  for  riches  or  a  name. 
But  still  we  are  reminded,  now  and  then, 
That  there  are  some  who  would  be  gentlemen. 


ALONG  THE  STREAM 

For   miles    the    drooping    willows    shade   the 

stream ; 
For  hours  the   violets   dream,   and  nod,   and 

dream, 
While  sunbeams  stab  the  shadows  with  their 

gleam. 

And  lanquid  butterflies  float  idly  where 

The  wild  flow'rs  breathe  the  sweetest,  and  'tis 

there 
That  zephyrs  comb  the  tangled  maiden-hair. 


33 


THE  WIND  SEEMS  KIND  TODAY 

The  trees  nod  east,  the  trees  nod  west; 

The  wind  seems  kind  today,  most  kind ; 

It  lulls  the  little  leaves  to  rest. 

The  trees  nod  east,  the  trees  nod  west ; 

Do  you  suppose  it  has  a  quest  ? 

Has  something  definite  to  find  ? 

The  trees  nod  east,  the  trees  nod  west ; 

The  wind  seems  kind  today,  most  kind. 


34 


A  ROSE  OR  TWO 

A  Rose  or  two 
For  ma  dnchesse. 
Not  many — true, 
A  rose  or  two. 
Who  sent  them?    You 
Could  never  guess. 
A  rose  or  two 
For  ma  duchesse. 


35 


JEALOUSY 

The  shadows  seem  to  love  the  stream, 
The  willows  bend  above  it; 
And  while  I  cannot  say  I  deem 
It  strange  that  they  should  love  it, 

I  must  confess  that  when  I  see 
The  willows  bending  o'er  it, 
I  feel  a  twinge  of  jealousy — 
For  I,  myself,  adore  it! 


THE   TIME   FOR    MATING 

What  is  the  use  of  waiting? 
Tell  her  your  love  today. 
The  Spring  's  the  time  for" mating ; 
There  is  no  month  like  May. 
The  lilies  are  renewing 
Their  promise  to  the  lake; 
Intent  upon  his  wooing, 
A  dove  is  softly  cooing 
Somewhere  within  the  brake. 

Why  be  content  with  sighing 
As  if  it  were  too  late? 
The  mocking  bird  is  flying 
This  moment  to  his  mate. 
Enough  of  contemplating — 
Spring  will  depart  with  May ! 
And  Spring  's  the  time  for  mating) 
Too  long  you  have  been  waiting ; 
Tell  her  your  love  today. 


37 


AND  WE  WERE  ALONE 

The  moon  rose — 

The  night  was  wistful ; 

And  the  thistle  stalks  shimmered. 

Adown  the  slope,  southerly, 

Shone  the  lights  of  the  city 

The  wind  moaned — 

Moaned  as  a  wounded  woman  might- 

And  the  stars  blinked  wonderingly 

In  their  blue-green  meadow. 

Then  all  was  still. 

And  my  soul  entered  into  the  silence 

As  into  a  sanctuary ; 

And  we  were  alone. 


THE  DRAGON-FLY 

Unless  you  are  keener  by  far  than  I, 

You  would  never  guess 

That  the  water-cress 

Is  madly  in  love  with  the  dragon-fly. 

Poor  water-cress ! 

For  the  dragon-fly  darts  here  and  there 

All  unconcerned.     He  does  not  care. 


39 


THE  FIRST  PRELUDE:— CHOPIN 

The  Morning  of  Creation  heard 
Such  music,  when  the  first  wind  stirred ; 
A  World  was  born  with  every  bar — 
With  every  sixteenth  note,  a  star. 


40 


FOR  HER  MAJESTY,  THE  QUEEN 

A  fleet  of  fairy  sunbeams 

Is  sailing  the  cloud-seas  o'er; 

The  flagship  is  "The  Forget-me-not," 

And  I  am  the  commodore. 

Yes,  I  am  the  commodore  of  the  fleet ; 
And  I  sail  o'er  seas  of  a  silver  sheen 
With  my  cargo — a  thousand  kisses 
For  her  majesty,  the  Queen. 


NESTING  TIME 

The  oriole  flies  to  his  mate; 
The  linnet  has  already  flown ; 
And  e'en  the  flicker  on  the  gate 
Is  not  alone. 

O  happiness  of  flying  home! 
One  lonely  heart  thou  hast  forgot; 
For  such  as  I  may  stay  or  roam — 
It  matters  not. 


QUATRAIN 

My  life  is  a  curious,  threadbare  thing — 
A  garment,  clean  in  the  main,  I  trust ; 
But  worn,  and  patched  with  the  songs  I  sing, 
And  I  wear  it  because  I  must. 


43 


FRIENDSHIP 

You  ask  me  what  is  Friendship.     And  I  say : 
The  beacon  light  that  throws  the  brightest  ray 
On  Yesterday,  Tomorrow,  and  Today — 
That  is  Friendship. 

You  ask  me  what  is  Friendship.     I  reply : 
The  smile  for  smile,  the  sigh  for  sigh, 
Unchanged  and  changeless  as  the  years  go  by — 
That  is  Friendship. 


44 


I  KNOW  A  PLACE  WHERE  A  RIVER 
WEAVES 

I  know  a  place  where  a  river  weaves 
Thro'  fields  that  are  wide,  and  cool,  and  green ; 
I  know  where  they  gather  the  red  rose-leaves 
For  the  bed  of  the  Fairy  Queen. 

And  I  have  seen  at  the  twilight  hour 
A  star  gaze  sadly  thro'  the  trees; 
Sad  with  loving  some  earth-born  flow'r 
That  sighed  for  the  evening  breeze. 


45 


WAS  IT  THE  SEA? 

The  song  of  the  sea  is  in  my  ears — 

The  song  of  the  sea,  the  song  of  the  sea ! 

Souls  that  have  lived  in  the  bygone  years, 

Singing  to  me,  singing  to  me ! 

Off  to  the  west  the  dark  sky  clears ; 

A  sea-gull  circles,  and  wheels,  and  peers. 

The  cloud  fleets  sail  to  the  southward — Hist ! 

Was  it  a  voice  that  called  to  me — 

A  voice  that  I  have  not  heard  in  years — 

Or  was  it  the  sea  ? 

My  cheek  is  wet  with  a  dash  of  spray — 
A  dash  of  spray,  a  dash  of  spray ! 
And  into  my  heart  come,  creeping,  fears ; 
And  I  look  away,  I  look  away ! 
And  into  my  eyes  there  comes  a  mist, 
A  mist  of  spray — or  is  it  tears  ? 


SONG  OF  A  LONELY  SOUL 

Have  you  ever  thought  of  the  uselessness 

Of  the  lives  we  lead? 

Have  you  ever  sounded  the  emptiness 

Of  the  word  "succeed?" 

Have  you  ever  trudged  for  many  an  hour 

O'er  many  a  mile, 

To  find  that  you  sought  but  a  withered  flow'i 

That  was  not  worth  while? 


47 


Until  a  master  passion  shall  arise, 

Absorbing  all  his  little  likes  and  loves 

As  the  first  morning  sun  absorbs  the  dew, 

Man  is  inconstant  as  a  weather  vane 

In  March.     When  looking  south,  he  loves  the 

south ; 

Yet  loves  no  point  upon  the  compass  less 
Because  he  thinks  he  loves  the  south  the  best. 


48 


HAVE  YOU  EVER  BEEN  TO 
FAIRYLAND  ? 

Have  you  ever  been  to  Fairyland  ? 
Did  you  go  by  way  of  the  Rainbow  Road  ? 
Did  the  tiny  chief  of  the  outlaw  band 
Of  elves  demand  that  you  pay  a  toll? 
And  did  you  give  him  a  feather  from 
The  wing  of  a  golden  oriole? 


49 


I   WOULD   BE  GREAT 

I  would  be  great ; 

Not  great  in  strength,  nor  mastery  of  art ; 

But  great  of  heart ! 

I  would  be  true ; 

That  I  might  seem  to  be  more  worthy  of 

A  woman's  love ! 

And  I  would  look 

Upon  my  fellow  men  with  trustful  eyes. 

I  would  be  wise ! 


WHAT  DO  YOU  SAY? 

Some  say :    "Life  is  but  a  merry  dance 
Thro'  endless  mazes  of  Night  and  Day" — 
Or:    "Life  is  at  best  but  a  game  of  chance; 
And  we  are  but  pawns  in  a  ceaseless  play" — 
Or  again :     "The   great  moulder  is   Circum- 
stance ; 
And  we — mere  pieces  of  plastic  clay." 

Ah,  Life  is  a  bundle  of  Hopes  and  Fears ! 
Tis  enough,  that  enough  will  be  always  more ; 
Our  lives  do  but  echo  the  laughter  and  tears 
Of  thousands  of  souls  who  have  gone  before — 
They  who  have  mounted  that  flight  of  years 
Which  leads  to  a  closed  or  open  door ! 


THEN    CAME    TWILIGHT 

Then  came  Twilight ; 

And  with  her  own  pale  hands  let  down  the  bars 

That  kept  them  from  our  sight, 

And — one  by  one — the  sleepy  little  stars 

Arose  and  strayed  into  the  night. 

Then — as  a  bride 

In    her    white    wedding-garments — came    the 

Moon. 

"They  say  her  lover  died 
Long  years  ago,"     I   whispered.     "Yes,   the 

Moon 
Is  mad — stark  mad !"  the  Night  Wind  sighed. 


LONGINGS 

The  mocking1  bird  that  fluttered  half  a-swoon, 
And  all  but  blinded  by  the  glare  of  noon, 
Was  longing  for  (poor,  little  mocking  -bird!) 
That  strange,  white  mystery  some  call  the  moon. 

The  night  wind,  when  the  western  sky  was 

kiss'd 

With  saffron  shaded  into  amethyst, 
Was  sighing  for  (poor,  little  lonely  wind!) 
The  mountains  dreaming  in  their  purple  mist. 


53 


SIR   INSOLENCE 

Self-satisfied  and  jauntily  at  ease, 
Well-groomed  and  rakish,  daring — debonair — 
(A  veritable  Lovelace,  if  you  please) 
The  blackbird  swaggers  in  the  garden  there. 
Just  hear  him  scold!    'Tis  evident  he  sees 
Me  coming.    Hear  him  clamor  and  declare 
That  they  are  his — my  lawn,  and  flow'rs,  and 

trees ; 
And  that  'twere  best  that  I  should  have  a  care. 

Altho'  I  should  not  wish  to  have  him  know, 
I  like  his  scoldings  and  his  lordly  ways ; 
I  like  to  see  him  strutting  to  and  fro 
Across  my  lawn.     I  miss  him  on  the  days 
When  he  indulges  me  with  a  pretense 
Of  having  made  a  change  of  residence. 


54 


THE    WATER-LILIES 

Sometimes  the  water-lilies  lay 

Their  cheeks  to  cool 

Upon  the  bosom  of  the  pool 

Of  a  summer's  day ; 

And  then  the  ripples  kiss  them  when  they  dare. 

I  need  not  say 

That  there  are  many  graceful  ripples  there. 

Perhaps  that  's  why  the  lilies  sometimes  lay 

Their  cheeks  to  cool 

Upon  the  bosom  of  the  pool 

Of  a  summer's  day? 


55 


AN    OLD-FASHIONED    GARDEN 

Larkspur  and  eglantine, 
Heartsease  and  heather, 
Hollyhocks,  four-o'clocks, 
Poppies,  mignonette  and  phlox 
Growing  wild  together. 
What  a  dear,  old-fashioned  nook, 
And  how  few  would  heed  it. 
What  a  place  to  take  a  book — 
And  never  read  it ! 


BUT   THE  LIVING   FADE 

A  mocking  bird  on  the  topmost  spray 
Of  a  distant  tree 
Is  singing : 

"The  days  are  slipping  away  from  me — 
Drifting  into  eternity. 
Like  the  brook  in  the  glade, 
Life  ripples  on; 
But  the  Living  fade 
Like  the  rose  of  dawn, 
Which  is  scarce  abloom 
Before  'tis  gone. 
And  I,  who  came 
With  a  heart  of  name, 
And  a  spirit  as  restless  as  the  sea — 
/,  too,  must  follow  the  drift  of  days 
Into  eternity." 

Ah,  the  mocking  bird  is  sad  tonight ! 

Sad  with  the  thought  that  the  days  must  bring 

Another  spray — 

Another  spring — 

And  another  mocking  bird  to  sing. 


WHEN  SUNBEAMS    STRAY 

When  sunbeams  stray 
Into  my  heart, 
The  shadows  start 
To  run  away. 

"They  start,"  I  say  ; 
Too  well  I  know 
How  shadows  stay 
And  sunbeams  go. 


Date  Due 


Library  Bureau  Cat.  No.  1137 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001  259  829  8 


37  3  , 


